Chapter 10

"Good morning, Draco," said Lady Malfoy, sailing into the dining room. "I'm glad I found you before you went off – we have much to discuss – good gracious, is that coffee you're drinking?"

Draco looked up from his newspaper and eyed his mother carefully, trying to ascertain her state of mind. "Good morning, Mother. How are you feeling today?"

"Really, Draco, what on earth has gotten into you? If your father finds outs you are in here reading his paper and drinking his coffee, he will be quite annoyed, I can assure you."

"Father isn't here, Mother," Draco told her.

"That is no excuse, and you know it," Lady Malfoy returned firmly. "Telford," she said, fixing her gaze upon him, "would you be kind enough to bring my son a cup of tea with plenty of milk and sugar in it? And perhaps one of Mrs. Shepherd's lovely cinnamon buns – the ones with the sticky syrup on them. Draco just loves them."

Telford regarded Draco helplessly.

"That won't be necessary, Telford," Draco assured him. "I've finished breakfast, Mother. I'm just about to go out."

"Really?" Lady Malfoy regarded hi uncertainly, confused that she did not know her son's itinerary for the day. "Where?"

Draco hesitated. In fact he had an appointment that morning to meet with his barrister and solicitor, to finalize the details of liquidating some of the shares he held in three different companies. When he went to him the previous day, his solicitor had advised him not to sell, as the companies were still relatively young and had not nearly reached their full potential. Unfortunately, time was a luxury Draco could ill afford. If all went well, he should have the money in hand within a few days.

Then he would meet Hermione and determine how they were going to give the money to her father in exchange for young Flynn.

Guilt clawed at his belly. He had been tormenting himself endlessly over what had happened between him and Hermione two nights earlier. Draco understood that his mind had been clouded from the effects of both his headache and the laudanum he had dosed himself with prior to Hermione's arrival. Even so, what he had done was appalling. Hermione had come to him frightened, alone, seeking his help and guidance and support, because on some level he barely understood, she trusted him. And he had taken advantage of her. There was no way to paint it any plainer than that. He had used his considerable experience to seduce her when she was most vulnerable. He had eased her back and buried himself deep inside her, taking her in a frenzy of passion as if she were some common harlot who had dropped by to service him.

Self-loathing poured through him, intensified by the sudden hardening between his legs. What the hell was the matter with him?

"Draco? Are you all right? You suddenly look ill."

"I'm fine," Draco assured his mother, forcing himself back to the present. "I'm meeting a friend for lunch," he added, in answer to her previous question.

"Who?"

"His name is Lawrence." Draco was never certain how much information to give his mother during these exchanges. Sometimes she easily accepted whatever he told her with nothing more than a perfunctory nod, while other times she became fixated upon some seemingly inconsequential detail and worked herself into a near frenzy over it.

"Is that Lord Shelton's son?" she enquired, drawing her finely shaped brows together. 'The one who is afraid of horses?"

Draco debated whether or not to correct her. Ultimately he decided it was easier for his mother to have an image in her mind of whom he was going to see than not. "The very same," he lied.

"Then you must be sure to invite him to your party, Draco," she declared enthusiastically. "I promise you it is going to be great fun. We're going to have all kinds of lovely games on the lawn, and ice cream and cakes, and ponies..." She stopped suddenly frowning. "You don't think poor Lawrence will be sick when he sees them, do you? That's what happens to him, you know. He simply throws up everywhere the minute he gets near a horse. His parents have tried everything to make him stop. They've even taken him to a doctor who suggested it might be the smell of animals that was offending him so. So his nursemaid tied a scented scarf around his face to try to mask the smell, but that only caused him to vomit all over the scarf, poor thing, which I'm sure he found most upsetting."

"I believe he has gotten over his fear of horses, Mother," Draco assured her.

"Well, that's a relief to his parents, I'm sure. A gentleman can't have much of a life if he cannot bring himself to mount a horse without getting sick all over the place. People tend to notice that sort of thing."

"To say nothing of the poor horse," quipped Blaise striding into the dining room.

"Mr. Zambini," said Telford, startled by Blaise's sudden appearance, "how did you get in?"

"The front door was left slightly ajar. I called hello, but nobody answered, and I could hear all of you chatting away in here, so I thought I'd just save you the trouble of answering the door and come on in. Good morning, Lady Malfoy," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "I must say, you look particularly lovely this morning. You seem to get younger and more radiant every time I see you."

"Mother, you remember my friend Blaise Zambini," said Draco seeing confusion cloud his mother's eyes as she stared at her young admirer. "He has been a visitor here many times."

"Yes, of course." Lady Malfoy smiled politely. "How are you, Mr Zambini?"

"Just wonderful, thank you, Lady Malfoy," said Blaise, seating himself at the table. "Now Draco, you really let me down last night, I'm afraid. There I was at the Fenwicks' ball, telling everyone that you had sworn to me that you were going to attend, and then you never showed up, you coward. Lady Elizabeth was shadowing me all night, and every time she appeared she had a different fool dangling on her arm. I think she wanted to be sure that when you finally arrived you would see that she was having a marvellous time without you. While she seemed happy enough early on, as the hour grew later and the fellows traipsing around after her got progressively younger and more pitiful, you could almost feel the irritation seething from her across the room. By the end of the evening she was desperate enough to accept a dance from Lord Beckett's bran-faced son, and he barely comes up to her shoulder – she spent the entire time trying to keep him from bumping his nose into her chest!" He laughed.

"Why, Draco did one of your friends give a party yesterday?" asked Lady Malfoy.

"There was a gathering at Lord and Lady Fenwick's," Draco replied.

"Why didn't you go?"

"I didn't feel like going out."

"Really, Draco, this shyness of yours just won't do," Lady Malfoy chided. "You have to make yourself go out, and once you are there I'm certain you will find that you will have a wonderful time."

"I'm sure you would have, Draco," Blaise agreed, rising from the table to inspect the feast of breakfast foods laid out on the marble-topped sideboard. "Lady Whitaker was there, and everyone was fawning all over her because her husband had just purchased a magnificent diamond necklace for her from some jewel dealer he met from Belgium," he recounted, heaping a selection of meats and rolls onto his plate. "The stone at the center of the necklace is apparently quite well known – it is call the Star of Persia, or some such thing. People were saying it once belonged to an empress, and that it is unspeakably valuable because of its clarity and its unusual shade of pink. It aroused such fascination that it was even mentioned in the Daily Prophet this morning, if you can believe that," he finished, chuckling. "That just shows you just what a dull night it was."

Lady Malfoy dropped her teacup, spilling its contents all over the table.

"Let me help you, my lady," offered Telford, rushing forth with a napkin.

"Leave it!" Lady Malfoy's entire body was rigid as she fixed her gaze on Blaise. "I believe, Mr Zambini, that you must be mistaken." Her hands gripped the table as she spoke, as if she were struggling for support. "The Star of Persia belongs to me. It was a gift from my husband on the night that my darling Draco was born. Although I seldom have an opportunity to wear it, it is a gift I nonetheless cherish deeply. I would never sell it, ever. It is a precious heirloom, and an irreplaceable memento of the birth of my son. I plan to give it to Draco when he grows up, so that he may present it to his wife when she bears their first child. So you see, Lady Whitaker could not possibly have been wearing it last night. Whatever Lord Whitaker purchased may have been very exceptional, but it was most assuredly not the Star of Persia."

Blaise glanced uneasily at Draco.

"Of course you are right, Mother," Draco agreed, his voice low and comforting. "Lord Whitaker probably bought something that merely resembled that Star of Persia, and people got confused about its history. Either that or the dealer lied to him about the stone. Either way, you have nothing to worry about. Your necklace is perfectly safe."

She nodded, but her gaze was panicked, as if she didn't know whether or not to believe him.

"Would you like to see the necklace?" she asked Blaise. "I can get it for you if you like. It will only take a moment."

Again, Blaise stole a glance at Harrison, whose eyes told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to accept her offer.

"Perhaps another time," Blaise said amiably. "These sweet rolls look absolutely delectable, Telford," he remarked, changing the subject. "You must tell Mrs. Griffen I simply adore her baking." He piled two of them onto his plate and returned to the table, where he tucked into his meal with great enthusiasm.

"Mother, would you like some more tea?" Draco could see that she was still upset by the mention of her necklace.

"No, thank you, Draco." She released her grip upon the table and stood. "I really must get back to organizing your party." She managed a forced smile. "Has Draco told you about it yet, Mr. Blaise?"

Again Blaise looked to Draco for guidance. Draco gave him a slight nod.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy, he did," Blaise assured her. "It sounds like it's going to be wonderful."

"And can you come?"

"Nothing could keep me from it."

"Splendid. Well, then, I must get to work writing the invitations. You boys eat – but no coffee, Draco, is that clear? It isn't good for you."

"Yes, Mother. Where did you want to write your invitations?"

"Why, I thought I would work on them at my desk in my room. Why?"

"Telford will see you upstairs, then."

"Really, Draco, that isn't at all necessary. Telford has better things to do than escort me around the house. I'm not an invalid, you know, and I'm quite aware of where my own chamber is."

"Actually, your ladyship, I was just about to go upstairs anyway," Telford assured her.

Lady Malfoy regarded him suspiciously. "Why?"

"I need to fetch something from Lord Malfoy's wardrobe," he quickly improvised.

Because of his mother's condition, Draco preferred to keep his staff to a minimum, and therefore he did not employ a valet. Fewer servants meant he could afford to pay the ones he did have better wages, which made them less apt to seek employment elsewhere. Loyalty and discretion were important to him. He did not want servants who came and went and then gossiped to others about his mother's fragile state of mind. Also, he had learned over the years that his mother did not tolerate change very well. She needed routine and familiar surroundings and people in order to function well.

In that respect, her illness resembled the senility that had gradually broken the mind of her husband.

"Very well, Telford, if you are planning to go upstairs anyway, then you may accompany me – although I really don't feel it is necessary." She smiled at Blaise once more. "Very nice to see you again, Mr. Zambini. I shall look forward to seeing you at Draco's party."

"And I look forward to attending," Blaise assured her, politely rising from his seat. "I'm sure it's going to be grand."

Draco also rose from his chair as his mother left the room. When she and Telford were gone, he sank back down and took a final swallow of his coffee.

"Did Lady Malfoy really own the Star of Persia?" asked Blaise curiously.

Draco nodded. "Unfortunately, it was one of the many things my father was forced to sell after his investments began to fail."

"But he didn't tell her?"

"I suspect he wasn't thinking clearly at the time," Draco replied carefully. "He was completely overwhelmed by the debts that surrounded him. But he also wanted to protect my mother from the knowledge of just how badly he had handled their wealth. I suppose at first he thought that he would sell a few things and relieve some of the financial pressure on him, and hope that eventually some of his investments would bear fruit." His expression was grim. "Unfortunately, that was not the case."

"So did your mother ever learn about what happened to her jewels?"

"Yes," Draco replied shortly. Even though Blaise had been a friend of his for nearly two years, he did not like discussing his family's past with him. Some things were better left buried. "Her memory, however, became rather selective after my father died."

"Maybe you should go to Lord Whitaker and offer to buy the necklace from him," Blaise suggested. "It would undoubtedly please your mother to have it back in her possession."

Draco's expression was noncommittal. "My mother's reactions to things can be a bit unpredictable. Also, it is doubtful that Lady Whitaker would be willing to part with a piece that has already generated her so much admiration and publicity."

"You're right about that she was positively glowing as everyone crowded about her, gawking at her great prow of a chest. I don't imagine she's had that many people toss her a second glance since the day she was married, and that was before I was born!" Blaise laughed. "But if you are interested, you'd best make an offer quickly, before the Dark Shadow swoops down and steals the thing away. Everyone last night was nattering on about how once he gets wind of the fact that this famous necklace is in London, he'll be positively desperate to add it to his collection. It must be worth at least ten times whatever your father paid for it over forty years ago."

Blaise was probably right, Draco realized. The thief currently playing the Dark Shadow had demonstrated his eye for the very best, and showed remarkable restraint each time he slipped into a house. Just as Draco had, some sixteen years earlier. Draco's rationale for doing so had been simple. He had only taken what he knew for certain had belonged to his estate. Those magnificent jewels his father had sold at a fraction of their value, in a heartbreaking moment of madness and desperation. Everything else Draco had left untouched. That had the advantage of delaying the moment in which the owners of the purloined jewellery realized that something had been taken. By the time the police had been called in to investigate, they were rooting around house that had been robbed days, or sometimes even weeks earlier. There were, quite simply almost no clues to be had. All that was certain was that someone had slipped in and out unnoticed, destroying nothing, and harming no one.

That was the critical difference between himself and the man who had stolen his guise.

Draco had been determined to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his, without causing injury or bloodshed. The current Dark Shadow was apparently only interested in stealing the most valuable jewels he could find. He didn't give a damn who got hurt or killed in the process. The longer he continued at his game, the greater the risk of more people being injured. For that reason alone he had to be stopped. But Draco also had a more personal need to bring the daring thief's career to an end. By adopting the persona Draco had created, this new burglar had aroused much interest in the past exploits of the Dark Shadow. While the detectives who had worked on the case sixteen years earlier had never been able to uncover Draco's involvement, it was possible this time he would not be so fortunate. Some earnest young detective might take a renewed interest in examining the Dark Shadow's past exploits, to see how they compared to those of the present. That was dangerous. Whether the man playing at the Dark Shadow realized it or not, by emulating the thief Draco had created, he had the power to bring Draco's carefully constructed life crashing down around him.

Draco could not permit that to happen.

"That was absolutely delicious," said Blaise, finishing off the last of his sweet roll. "That Mrs. Griffin of yours really is a gem. You mustn't let her slip through your fingers, Draco, or I'll be forced to find someplace else to drop in for breakfast. I have an idea," he said brightly, setting his napkin aside. "Let's go down to the Marbury Club and see if anyone is taking bets on whether the Dark Shadow will try to nick Lady Whitaker's necklace tonight, before she and Lord Whitaker leave for Paris tomorrow. I'm bound to make a few pounds out of old Lord Sullivan on that."

"How do you know which way Lord Sullivan will wager?"

"I don't," he replied, shrugging. "I just tell him how I plan to bet, and he bets against me. He doesn't really care whether he wins or loses, he just enjoys the sport of telling everyone how completely idiotic my predictions are. If I bet that the Dark Shadow will wait until Lady Whitaker returns from her trip abroad. There will be a lot of gruff arguing as Lords Shelton and Reynolds jump into the fray, a few names will be called, and then we can all have lunch. I think they're serving boiled leg of lamb with white sauce today – that's one of my favourites."

Draco's mind began to race. Blaise was probably right, he realized. If the Dark Shadow knew about the Star of Persia – and given the attention the stone had aroused the previous evening, Draco could not imagine that he didn't – then he would most likely attempt to steal it that night, before Lady Whitaker had a chance to take it abroad. If Draco had wanted to steal the necklace, he certainly wouldn't have waited around for a month or more to see if it would return.

No point in permitting such a magnificent piece to go to France, where some other eager jewel thief could find it too tempting to ignore.

"What do you say, then, Draco? Are you up for a visit to your club?"

"Not today, Blaise, I'm afraid," Draco replied. "I have a meeting scheduled for this morning, and then there are a number of matters I must attend to this afternoon. Sorry about that." Blaise was not a member of the Marbury Club, and therefore he relied upon Draco to take him there as a guest. "Since Telford has gone upstairs with my mother, I'll see you to the door." He rose from the table.

"That's a pity." Blaise looked genuinely disappointed as Draco escorted him to the foyer. "What about tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow might be a possibility. We shall have to see."

"Very well. Are you planning to attend Lord and Lady Beckett's party tonight? It promises to be quite grad. If you go, I shall do my utmost to protect you from Lady Elizabeth," he joked. "Given her profound irritation with you last night, I fear you will need my protection."

"I don't know whether I'll be going or not," Draco replied evasively. If h were going to break into Lord Whitaker's home that night, preparations had to be made. He did not want to waste time at some bloody party.

"Fine then, abandon me," his friend teased. "I shall tell all the men that you're off having a torrid night of pleasure with a beautiful young French dancer, and inform all the women that you are preoccupied with going over your plans for a massively expensive addition to your country estate. That will give them all something to talk about."

"I don't particularly want them talking about me," Draco said, opening the front door.

"That's impossible," Blaise pointed out. "You're titled, wealthy, relatively young, unattached, and form hat I hear, women don't find your appearance altogether hideous. If you show up, they will gossip about how much you are currently worth, whom you are going to dance with, and who has a chance of ultimately becoming your bride. If you don't show up, they will gossip about how much you are currently worth, whom you danced with the last time they saw you, and what on earth you could be doing that could take precedence over attending such an important party. That is where I, as your friend, simply have to intervene. I don't want them to think you're at home padding about in your slippers, reading dusty books and sipping cocoa. It isn't good for your image, Draco," he finished, going out the door. "Trust me."

Draco watched as Blaise climbed into his waiting carriage. He didn't really give a damn about his image, he thought, closing the door. People could think whatever the hell they wanted about him – as long as they left his mother and the memory of his father alone.

And never found out the truth about the exploits of his past.

The Dark Shadow's reign of thievery was coming to an end, Draco decided, filled with a sudden sense of urgency. If the thief were anything like him, he would not waste a moment trying to steal the exquisite Star of Persia. Draco would break into Lord Whitaker's home that night, wait for the Shadow to appear, and confront him a final time. And this time, he would make sure no one else got hurt.

Even if that meant Draco had to kill the murdering bastard himself.